


Left on Read

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Mutual Masturbation, No Touching, Phone Sex, Pining, Sexting, Smut, accidental nudes, emotional denial, sending nudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier buried his face into the duvet and groaned. He half-hoped that if he lay very still and never left the room again, Geralt might forget he ever existed. He could turn to dust. Piles of dust didn’t need to worry about accidentally sending their best friend a photo of their dick.In an attempt to get over his growing crush on Geralt, Jaskier decides to do what he always does when he's feeling a little needy: send nudes to someone who's sure to appreciate them. If only he'd checked who the recipient was before he hit send...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913770
Comments: 91
Kudos: 874
Collections: Witcher Smut





	Left on Read

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is the first time I've _ever_ written smut. Please be kind <3

Jaskier rolled the powdery bath bomb between his hands, the light yellow dust coating his palms and fingers. There was a slight shimmer to it, catching the still-bright light that was filtering in through the frosted bathroom window. It smelt of lavender and chamomile. 

It was the smell that Geralt had mentioned when he’d handed him the bath bomb in the little paper bag that afternoon. 

“I was in there anyway,” he’d said, slightly awkwardly, “and I know you like the smell, so…” 

It was… sweet. Jaskier had been the one to introduce Geralt to the power of bath bombs a few years back during a moment of panic when deciding what to get Yen for her birthday, and he’d slipped into a habit of picking Jaskier up a little something every time he bought something for her. For Jaskier - who was chronically inept at remembering birthdays - it was always a nice surprise, and it was cute seeing what Geralt thought he’d like this time. He was getting very good at it: not that Jaskier would have told him if he’d bought him something he’d hated. 

Plus, his impromptu gifts made a good excuse for a little extra luxury. He needed it right now, too - stress was weighing on his shoulders more and more, and there was a tension in his back that he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how many stretches he did. He could sense the strain in Geralt too, although his attempts to actually _talk_ to him about it tended to fall on deaf ears. Geralt was stressed, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. 

He delicately placed the bath bomb on the edge of the tub as it gradually filled with water. The tub was enormous - which was _wonderful_ \- but it took an age to fill. He sauntered between the bathroom and his bedroom, bringing in and lighting a handful of candles and digging out his speaker from beneath a pile of laundry, balancing it on the cistern of the toilet. 

Perched on the edge of the bath, he sent a quick text to Geralt - he’d sequestered himself away in his room, which meant he was either watching a movie or gaming with his headphones on, and any knocks at his door would either be completely ignored or met with a brief, heartfelt “fuck off”. 

**_Jask: Making the most of that bath bomb u got me. lmk if u need the bathroom_**

He tossed his phone onto the towels he’d piled up next to the tub and wandered into his bedroom, vaguely planning on finding a book to read. He knew, of course, that it would likely go untouched: he’d bring books to read in the bath and inevitably forget them in favour of scrolling through his phone or zoning out as he listened to music. He slid a book from the shelf - some sci-fi paperback recommended to him by Ciri - and brought it into the bathroom, chucking it down next to his phone. 

The notification light was flashing - a response from Geralt. 

**_GRUMPYBUTT: I’m okay, thank you. But don’t be in there for two and a half hours again._**

**_Jask: that happened 1 time and i was feeling v. emotionally delicate_**

There was no response. Geralt was even less talkative over text. 

Jaskier quickly scrolled through spotify looking for a suitably chill playlist, before hitting shuffle and placing the phone back down. He locked the bathroom door and proceeded to get undressed, dumping his clothes in a little pile on the other side of the room. He stepped into the bathtub, the hot water swirling around his ankles. It was a little _too_ hot, but that was how he liked it. 

He sank into the steamy water with a sigh, and gave it a few more minutes to make sure it was covering as much of him as possible before flicking the tap off with his foot. He grabbed the bath bomb, sniffed it one last time, then dropped it in with a satisfying _plop_. 

It started fizzing and spinning around the surface of the water immediately, golden froth pouring from it, turning it a dazzling yellow colour. And within the foam and colour, the shimmer that had clung to his hands transformed into fine, iridescent glitter. _Whoops_. He hadn’t anticipated it being quite so sparkly. 

Oh well. The heady, relaxing smell of lavender and chamomile was too lovely and the hot water lapping at his skin too calming to possibly care about making a mess of the bath. He leant back, eyes half-closed, enjoying the feeling of the steam making his face sweat as the bath bomb spent itself around his legs. 

It was a nice gift. _Sweet_ , he thought again, sweet and soft and - well - those weren’t often words he’d grown to associate with Geralt. Geralt was more… grumpy and secluded and, yes, _kind_ , but also more than a little cynical. But he was coming out of his shell, a little more every day, and while Jaskier was often haunted by the fear that Geralt was merely _putting up with him_ , it was little gestures like this that made him feel like he wasn’t a burden to him after all; wasn’t just a way to fill a spare room and earn some extra money. 

Of course, the difficulties of being Geralt’s _friend_ meant Jaskier had to deal with his own internal struggle - one that was fuelled incessantly by Geralt’s acts of seemingly random altruism - of trying to make sure he remained very firmly within that category. Friend. _Just_ friend. 

He’d always been _attracted_ to Geralt. He wasn’t blind, for Melitele’s sake. He’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that once he’d actually moved in and spent more time around him that living with the object of his desire would help to dampen those fires somewhat. Even Geralt’s insanely sculpted body and perfect jawline and infuriatingly nice hair couldn’t stand up to the scrutiny of snoring and farting and mismatched routines, to fights over the dishwasher and seeing rows of perfect, identical pants hung up to dry in the garden. 

And yet, somehow, it _could_. They’d spent so much time together already - travelling, sharing hotels and hostels and tents and even, on more than one occasion, beds - that all the foibles that revealed themselves when living with him didn’t seem so awful. If anything, it was _worse_ now, because in his own home Geralt was more relaxed, more at ease. More _himself_. And the more of him he saw, the more Jaskier… 

The more he _liked_. No need getting sentimental. 

Jaskier gently moved his legs back and forth in the water, letting the yellow-stained suds splash over him, making little waves at the edge of the bath. He tapped his fingers on the side in a little staccato rhythm and wondered, hazily, when he’d last gotten laid. 

It wasn’t any time recently, that was for sure, he noted somewhat bitterly. 

That was the real problem. Since moving in with Geralt he’d had a few flings, a couple of one night stands, and that _disastrous_ flirtation with Valdo, but nothing had stuck. He was _sure_ that if he just found the right person he’d get over his growing infatuation with his friend - his _best_ friend - and yet… 

He wasn’t entirely convinced that Geralt himself wasn’t the reason why none of his amorous attempts had been particularly successful. It was all very well and good hitting up old flames or flirting at bars, but when he returned home to find Geralt infuriatingly shirtless, sprawled on the sofa watching some documentary about fucking _cat shows_ it all seemed to fade into insignificance. 

He tried to push the train of thought to the back of his mind, then pinched his nose between his fingers and dunked his head boldly beneath the warm water. He lay there, the back of his head pressed against the hard bottom of the tub, listening to the sound of water in his ears and the muffled music. He exhaled, a string of bubbles escaping his lips. 

He lay there for as long as his lungs would let him, before surfacing with a splash. He made a mental note to clean up any spillage before leaving the bathroom: Geralt was fastidious about puddles. He lazed languidly in the water, both phone and book abandoned, for gods knew how long. All-too-soon, the water was cooling around him, and Geralt’s warning not to spend hours soaking himself surfaced in his memory. 

He sat up with a sigh, running his hands through his wet hair, then tugged at the plug with his toe, pulling it out. The colourful water began to gurgle down the drain. 

He stepped from the bath, carefully trying to drip _only_ on the bathmat, and wrapped his towel around his waist. He peered down at his chest - a light layer of glitter coated his skin, sticking in his fuzzy chest hair. Ah. He turned around, slowly, and looked down into the bathtub as the last of the water drained away. There was a shimmering coating of glitter across the whole of the bottom of the bath. 

_Ah, shit_. He bent down and ran his palm through the glitter, leaving a clean white streak behind him. It clung to his skin in clumps. He shrugged. _In for a penny, in for a pound_. He spread the glitter across his chest, rubbing it from his hand as best he could. 

Geralt was going to be _mad_. But Geralt - and the glittery mess of the bathtub - could wait. At least until he’d dried his hair. 

He wrapped the towel slightly tighter around his waist and headed back into his room. He flopped down onto the bed, picked up his phone and began to scroll again, holding it above his face. 

_Get up_ , he thought to himself. _Get dressed._

He closed the app. Then opened it again. 

_Get dressed!_

He didn’t particularly fancy getting dressed. He was so stifled - so _bored_. He’d put on clean clothes, potter around the house till 2am, fall asleep till midday and do the whole thing all over again tomorrow. Time kept plodding along around him. 

The glitter clinging to his wrist caught in the light, shimmering. He stared at it, then sat up to get a better look, moving his hands around and watching as they sparkled. 

He thought of Geralt, again, and the last-minute thoughtfulness of the gift. A _bathbomb_. He wondered if Geralt had anticipated how much mess it would make. Jaskier let his mind wonder, well aware that he should be reigning it back in. He wondered if Geralt had chosen it _deliberately_ , knowing that Jaskier loved all things shiny. Had he gone through the shop and sniffed at each one, holding it in his hands, finding one that was _perfect_ , or had he just picked up the first thing he found? 

Had he imagined Jaskier soaking in the sparkling water, glitter clinging to his skin? 

Oh, _gods_. It really had been too long since he’d last gotten laid. 

Okay, no. Pining and moping wouldn’t do. Sure, he couldn’t go _out_ , but… he could bring them to him. Metaphorically. He needed to stop this ridiculous infatuation with his friend. 

He got up, still gripping onto the towel with one hand and his phone with the other, and stood in front of the full-length mirror that stood next to his wardrobe. This was one of the few things he’d brought with him when he moved: Geralt had never been one for mirrors. He peered at his reflection critically for a moment, moving from hip to hip, looking for the best angle. 

And then he let the towel drop. 

He tilted his head to one side. No - perhaps that was _too_ much. He had to - pardon the pun - ease these things in, after all. He picked up the towel again and tried to find the best position for it, wrapping it around his waist at an angle. He needed to hit the sweet spot between tempting and too much, between - well: flirting and fucking. In his experience, you always wanted to start small. 

Metaphorically speaking. 

The first photo was a _hook_. It was never explicit enough to appeal to anyone who didn’t want to see it, but still showed enough to entice someone who did. He played with the hem of the towel, hitching it up his hips, experimenting with angles - just how _much_ skin to keep exposed in the little gap where the towel wasn’t quite large enough to reach all the way around him 

He snapped a few photos, moving his hip an inch here, moving his arm up a little there. Then he repositioned the towel - unwrapping it from around his hips and simply holding it, just below his belly button, letting the fabric drape down. 

When he was finished, there were fifteen virtually identical photos. At least would be suitable for his purposes, he knew. He sat back on his bed, wrapping the towel loosely back around his waist, and scrolled through them, deleting the worst as he went. 

There were a handful of finalists - photos which were, to his well-trained eye, suitable. This process always took far too long: while he liked taking photos of himself, he hated looking at them. He chose the final essentially at random, opening it in his faithful editing app and quickly adjusting the light and contrast to make it _just so_. 

The final photo was… fine. It was _good_ , probably, but he’d spent too long looking at it now, too long focusing on his flaws. He opened up the chat app again, and started composing a new message. He perched on the edge of the bed, thinking, before finally making a decision. His fingers flew across the screen, letting auto-correct fix his clumsy spelling. 

“So bored atm 😏” 

It wasn’t the next great novel, but it got the point across in as few words as possible. No one ever read the text anyway. 

He scrolled through his contact book, considering each name individually. There were a few - more than a few, truthfully - who he’d set up this kind of ongoing exchange with. The sorts who’d always be happy to receive a photo. Slightly smaller, those who’d be guaranteed to send one back. He looked through the names, chewing on the inside of his lip. _No, no, yes, no, definitely_ … It was a scatter-gun approach, he knew, but damn if it wasn’t effective. 

He reached the end of his contact list and hovered over Valdo’s name for a moment before moving on. No - not today. Valdo was _fun_ , sure, but he couldn’t be bothered with the bravado and hate-flirting today. He needed something a little more tender. 

As that thought crossed his mind, he frowned to himself. 

“Urgh,” he said out loud, wrinkling his nose. He was going soft. 

He ticked the final name, flicked back to give the photo one final look-over, then - as he always did, in these circumstances - hit send without looking and tossed the phone onto the bed. 

It was easier, this way. He could send a hundred of these photos - perhaps he had, in total - but that little bite of anxiety before hitting “send” still gnawed at him. Best to act now, act quickly, and think later. It had seemed to work thus far. 

The towel beneath his bare skin was still uncomfortably damp as he sat on the edge of the bed. He shifted, a little, then tugged it out from beneath it and chucked it to the floor. He stared at it, wondering if he should hang it up, or at least drape it over the radiator. 

_Fuck it_. 

He flopped backwards and stared at the ceiling. Usually, if he was waiting for something, he’d scroll through his phone, mindlessly browsing apps. But that was out of the question, now. Better to wait. 

Staring straight up at the ceiling he couldn’t see how much of a mess his room was. He needed to clean it. He _wanted_ to clean it. Deep down, perhaps. He still didn’t get up. Through his open window, he could hear the sounds of his neighbours on their patios. 

Jaskier sighed. He’d let himself get distracted. He’d let himself get distracted and, more specifically, had left the bathroom in a _complete_ mess. Geralt was going to kill him, no doubt, and bury his body somewhere in the garden. 

It was a little late now to go and tidy up, considering. Not really appropriate. He’d text Geralt again and apologise for the mess and promise to clean up later. Easy. No big deal. 

He grabbed his phone, feeling more than a little annoyed that he’d not had a single response yet, and opened up the messaging app. Geralt’s chat would be buried, now, beneath the slew of recent outgoing messages. He preemptively scrolled down. 

His name wasn’t there. 

_Weird_. 

He scrolled up again. _Wait._ His recent messages - all of them - were, well. Innocent. Messages to friends and colleagues about work and parties and being chronically bored. 

He scrolled further up. Geralt’s name was still there at the top of the list - the last person he’d messaged. 

Oh - well, then. It was obvious. He’d just forgotten to hit _send_. No one was ignoring him. That was a reassuring thought, and he smiled to himself as he clicked on Geralt’s chat, a line about ‘cleaning the bathroom later’ ready to-- 

Geralt’s chat window opened. 

Oh no. _Oh no_. 

It was like he was back in the bath, head underwater, blood rushing in his ears. Geralt’s last message - his dismissive response about not spending too long in the bath - was no longer the most recent message in the chat. 

In its place was a photo. 

A selfie, in fact. Taken in a mirror. Just ten minutes ago. 

Jaskier was very glad he was still sitting on the bed, because if he was standing he’d have collapsed to the floor. Barely thinking, he quickly locked the phone and shoved it beneath one of the pillows strewn across the bed in an unthinking panic, like that somehow could save him. He fell backwards onto the duvet and pressed his hands into his eyes. 

_Shit. Shit, fuck, shit._

Oh, this was bad. This was extremely bad. He was - to put it lightly - totally fucked. 

He rolled onto his stomach and stared at the pillow beneath which the phone was buried. He half expected it to explode in his face, or start smoking. His fingers twitched as adrenaline coursed through him. He wondered if he was going to be sick. 

Jaskier buried his face into the duvet and groaned. He half-hoped that if he lay very still and never left the room again, Geralt might forget he ever existed. He could turn to dust. Piles of dust didn’t need to worry about accidentally sending their best friend a photo of their dick. 

He sighed into the soft fabric. Not _quite_ his dick. That was the one saving grace of this whole ordeal. 

He peered up and stared at the pillow. Right. Okay. _Okay_. Maybe Geralt hadn’t seen it. He was probably busy, and hadn’t checked his phone. Jaskier could just delete the message. Easy. 

Cautiously, he slid his hand beneath the pillow and pulled out the phone. He stared at the black screen. 

_Oh, fuck it._

He managed to unlock his phone on the third try, his finger fumbling on the screen, and the chat filled the screen once more. He just needed to-- 

He stared. The little icon next to the disastrous, _terrible_ photo was now displaying two blue ticks. 

_Fuck_. His life was over. Geralt had seen it, and was no doubt currently sat in his room, either horrified or disgusted or both. It was too late to delete the message now - the evidence would be seared into Geralt’s mind, an indelible memory. Steeling himself, he glanced at the app again, in case he’d somehow been wrong. 

No: there it was, the unmistakable checkmark of being left on read. _Shit_. It was like ice in his veins - like the floor was falling away. Reason and logic quickly vanished - there was only panic. What should he do? _What should he do?_ His fingers hovered useless above the screen, near-frozen, twitching. And then - as if something inside him snapped - he locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed with a half-stifled shout. 

He needed a plan. He needed a fucking _plan._ But the thought of picking up the phone and typing anything out made him feel like he was going to vomit. 

What made this worse, he thought, was that it really was quite a good photo. Not his _best_ , of course, but still very good. He swore under his breath. 

He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do - whether he was brave enough to talk to Geralt, to _apologise_ , or if he should just pretend it hadn’t happened. Whatever he decided to do, he would _not_ be doing it without a large drink in his hand, and there was a very nice bottle of red wine downstairs that he’d bought on a whim a few days ago with his name written _all_ over it. 

So. He had a plan. Go downstairs, get a drink, come back, and then - finally - apologise to Geralt. Or delete the photo. Or smash his phone to pieces. But first… 

He looked down. He absolutely could not risk Geralt seeing him naked. 

Again. 

His baggy pyjama bottoms - in a fetching if rather faded red plaid pattern - were beneath the duvet, and he tugged them on with a sigh. He was looking around the room for a shirt, listening out to make sure Geralt wasn’t downstairs when he made his dash to the kitchen, when there was a muffled little noise coming from the bed. 

_Bzz. Bzz._

He stopped and turned, glacially slowly, to face the bed. His phone was lying face down on the covers. He edged forwards, suddenly unsure, reaching out like it might bite, then with a swift little flick flipped it over. 

The notification light was blinking merrily away. 

His heart sank into his stomach. His stomach swiftly descended into his kneecaps. _Fuck._ He should have just deleted the photo when he’d realised what he’d done - or sent another message to apologise, to say something, _anything_ \- anything other than ignore it. He’d been so stupid - too paralysed with fear to actually _do_ anything. 

The light blinked at him accusatorily. 

Oh, fuck it. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. A little pop-up appeared across the lockscreen. 

**_GRUMPYBUTT has sent you a message:_**

The rest was hidden. He regretted giving Geralt such a stupid nickname in his phone; It made the whole thing seem farcical. It _was_ farcical.There was nothing for it. It was too late, now - he’d just have to apologise and hope Geralt could ignore the whole thing. 

He swiped in the unlock pattern - right on the first time - and the messenger app swiftly filled the screen. Geralt’s name, still at the top, was highlighted. He clicked on it, already half-composing the reply in his head - _Geralt, I’m really sorry, that message wasn’t supposed to go to you and I must have clicked on the wrong name and if you could ju-_

Geralt’s message opened. 

“Hrnk,” said Jaskier. When he’d regained control of his tongue, he said “oh my _gods_.” 

His first thought - the one that bubbled to the surface through the tumult of his mind - was _since when has Geralt been able to take selfies?_

That brief flash of reason sank back into the murky waters and was consumed, quickly and completely, by the rest of his significantly less wholesome thoughts. 

Good _lord_. Of all the outcomes he’d been expecting, he hadn’t been expecting _that_. 

He tapped on Geralt’s reply. The photo he had responded with filled the screen. 

Geralt. But… 

The photo cut out his face; only showing his chin and his stark white hair spilling over his shoulders. Jaskier wasn't terribly surprised: Geralt had always felt awkward about having photos taken of his face. The rest, though - The rest was, to a word, marvellous. 

The photo had been taken in a mirror - one drilled to the inside of Geralt’s wardrobe, a little mucky in the corners, fogged with fingerprints. Geralt filled the screen, the phone held in one hand. With his other, he was pulling down the elastic waistband of his dark, well-worn sweatpants to reveal several delicious inches of hip, melding into thigh, split by the crease where the two met. Jaskier had always wondered - but never actually asked - if the curtains matched the drapes: now he knew. The hair spilling from below Geralt's naval and down towards the swathe of skin exposed above the band of his sweatpants matched his white hair, if just a few shades darker. 

Maddeningly, nothing was actually _on show_ \- but, Jaskier supposed, that had been true of his own photo. 

Just a taste. Just a tease. A _hook_. 

_Fuck_. 

Jaskier let himself slump down onto the bed, his phone held loosely in one hand, running the other through his hair till the damp strands stood on end. He let out a long, low exhale, his eyes never once leaving the photo. 

Geralt really was unreasonably attractive. It wasn’t _fair_ , not at all. Jaskier had lots of attractive friends - at least, _he_ thought they were attractive - and he counted himself lucky that he could count on receiving illicit, half-naked photos from several of them when given the chance. But that was unattached, fleeting - he _loved_ them, of course, because they were all brilliant and wonderful in their own ways, but he loved them without… 

Without whatever _this_ was. 

For Priscilla, say, or even _Valdo_ , a saucy little exchange of texts was nothing. It was routine, and expected, and left both of them feeling fulfilled and a little more validated than before. It was _good_ , of course, but it was nothing new. Nothing brave. 

But seeing Geralt’s nearly-naked form filling his phone screen was different. He’d been in staunch, palpable denial for far too long - and the effect this single photo was having on him only proved that his denial was futile. 

A photo from Prissa or Valdo didn’t set his heart racing. It didn’t swamp his already damp skin in fine, cool sweat. It didn’t make his stomach flip or make the tips of his fingers tingle. A photo from them just gave him a hard-on and, a little while later, a satisfactory orgasm. 

He shifted, somewhat uncomfortably. 

Well. At least the hard-on was the same. 

_No_ , he told himself. _No_. He’s never - _you’ve_ never - 

No. 

Wanting to fuck Geralt, however deeply he tried to hide it, was _far_ preferable to being in love with Geralt. 

Which he wasn’t. 

He looked at the photo again. 

_Oh, help_. 

Well, there really was nothing for it. He couldn’t leave Geralt hanging like that, after all. It would be _rude_. And, with any luck, in the blissful haze of post-orgasm clarity, he’d realise that he wasn’t harbouring anything more than _lust_ for his housemate. It was just lust: that and cabin fever. _Boredom_. 

He needed to respond, and quickly, preferably. If this had been anyone else, he’d simply snap a photo of his extremely stiff cock and be done with it: but this was Geralt. He didn’t want to scare him off. They’d been open about their relationships before, had discussed encounters, chats over beer - _where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?_ \- but as far as Jaskier was aware, Geralt wasn’t exactly the kind to send nudes. If he opened his phone to a photo of Jaskier’s dick, he might never speak to him again. 

He thought, for a moment. Then rose from the bed and pulled down the pajama bottoms in one swift movement. Kicking them from around his ankles, he sashayed back towards the mirror. This was an angle he'd perfected some time ago, and he was very proud of it: back to the mirror, phone just peeking over his shoulder, his feet and hips positioned _just so_ to make the most of his arse. He snapped a couple in quick succession then sent one off without the usual panic of choosing and editing and tweaking. He felt, somehow, like there wasn’t time for all that now: that Geralt might simply stop responding, or lose his nerve. 

Jaskier watched as the icon next to the photo went from _sending_ to _sent_ with a little ping. He couldn’t be sure that _he_ wouldn’t lose his nerve either. He was amazed at the resilience of his own body; despite the fact there was adrenaline coursing through his veins and his heart was thundering in his ears, his boner was resolutely steadfast, knocking uncomfortably against him, impossible to forget. 

He collapsed onto the bed and grabbed the phone in one hand and himself in the other, giving himself a gentle squeeze. His body responded immediately, hardening even more beneath his touch. 

He was lost in thought when the phone in his hand buzzed again. His eyes snapped open and he scrambled for it, quickly unlocking the screen and opening the messaging app to see - 

_Oh, may all the gods and then some give me strength_. 

It was not, perhaps, the greatest angle available, but the subject of the photo was clear. Geralt’s boxers - the very same boxers Jaskier had thrown at him that morning, in fact, because he’d left them in the tumble dryer - straining against the unmissable bulge of his erection. Jaskier felt a hot, building tightness in his core as he looked at the image, half annoyed at the flimsy fabric standing between him and Geralt’s cock, but also hotly, undeniably proud: he had done this. It _was_ his: or at least, _for_ him. That thought sent another little shiver through him. 

He stroked himself faster, picturing the way Geralt pressed against his pants, how it would feel to have it pressed against _him_ instead. He flicked his thumb over his head and bit his lip with the little shockwave of pleasure that came with the movement. But - he had to hold back. He could only _imagine_ what the next photo could be, and could sense Geralt waiting for his response. 

He flicked open the camera app once more, then held the phone above him. He looked at his own body on the screen, shiny with sweat and still coated with a fine dusting of glitter. He looked fucking _good_. He ran a hand up his chest, the sweat and glitter mingling, till he found his nipple. He pressed it, rubbed it, then squeezed it between his fingers. He gasped - and snapped a photo. But he didn’t stop there. He wet his lips with his tongue before slowly pressing his first two fingers into his mouth, his lips pursing around them, and took another photo. 

He sent them both. 

The next photo came quickly; quicker than the previous two. Jaskier opened the app quickly, greedily, desperate to see what could be waiting for him. 

_Oh, yes._ Geralt had finally lost the boxers, his dick fully free, completely erect. He was - well. He was magnificent. Jaskier had been hoping that at least _some_ part of Geralt wasn’t maddeningly attractive, but was once again proven wrong: he appeared to be perfect, all the way down. Jaskier took the photo in, unable to stop himself picturing what he could do with a cock like that - with his hands, his mouth, his body. 

He wrapped his hand back around himself, stroking quicker, grasping firmer. Geralt, he knew, was just a room away - only six inches of brick between them. He could easily stand up, hammer on his door, push him down onto his bed and - 

Jaskier gasped, feeling himself getting close. With a shuddering hand, he took one final photo - his hand wrapped around himself, rock-hard, aching. He sent it off without even looking and arched his back with a soft gasp. 

He could feel the pressure building within him, the edge coming closer, his imagination swimming in images of Geralt: Geralt scrolling through the photos, Geralt in the same position as he was, his phone discarded, bringing himself to climax with Jaskier’s name on his lips. 

He was close, so close, shuddering with deep, panting breaths, his thumb slipping across the screen of the phone still clasped, completely forgotten, in his other hand. He could feel it building, wondering how this would feel if Geralt was in the room with him, if it was _his_ hand wrapped around him, when - 

“Jaskier?” 

His eyes snapped open, half expecting to see Geralt standing over him. There was a crackling sound like a muffled groan coming from beside him. Jaskier turned to stare at his phone, clasped loosely in trembling fingers. _Fuck._ Somehow he’d managed to hit the _call_ button with his wildly grasping thumb, and now... 

He brought the phone to his ear. “Geralt?” It was all he could do to gasp out his name. It tasted good on his tongue. He could hear his gasping, shuddering breaths through the speaker. 

“Oh _gods,_ Jaskier--” Geralt’s voice was broken, hoarse with lust, and before Jaskier truly realised what was happening he was listening to Geralt’s heavy, breathless orgasm. And - Melitele - hearing his name in Geralt’s voice, hearing his name no more than a whisper at Geralt’s peak - sent him rocketing over the edge himself. 

Grasping his cock in one hand and pressing his phone to his cheek with the other, he moaned out Geralt’s name once more in a final gasp for air, feeling himself release over his stomach. Usually he’d try to avoid a messy cleanup, but this evening he just couldn’t bring himself to care as he let the waves of pleasure wash over him. 

He lay on the bed, trembling, feeling cooling sweat glistening on his skin. He took huge, gasping breaths, feeling his heart thundering, his pulse racing. He lay spread-eagled on the bed, eyes lightly shut, utterly spent. 

“Jaskier?” 

He didn’t even open his eyes, just tilted his head towards the phone. “Geralt?” 

He heard sigh, deep and content. “Are you still bored?” 

“Hmm, not anymore,” he muttered. “But… give me half an hour.” 

There was a pause, disturbed only by the sound of Geralt’s heavy breathing. “Hmm.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is technically a part of my modern AU series: [Waiting For You to Come Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534440/chapters/56446972). Please check it out if you want more Modern AU shenanigans! I'm also on Tumblr, at [a-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) <3


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